Page 7 of Knot Her Beta

We move through the rest of the tour on autopilot. I check the water pressure in the second bathroom. I open and close the kitchen cabinets, testing the soft-close hinges. I murmur appreciatively over the walk-in closet that has more space than I would ever fill alone.

All the while, the pressure builds in my chest, a physical manifestation of the disconnect between what I’m hearing and what I’m feeling.

“And the building’s just three years old,” the realtor continues as we move back toward the front door. “You won’t have to worry about major repairs for at least a decade. The developers used only premium materials, so no builder-grade shortcuts here.”

I murmur in agreement, but my attention has already drifted. The space is complete in a way that leaves no room for anything else. No mess. No chaos. No expansion. Just a finished life waiting for me to step into it, and I already have one of those, if I want it.

As we pause in the living room, I try to picture Emily here, in the kitchen cooking one of her simple meals, but the image won’t form. She’d look out of place among all this stainless steel and quartz. Or maybe curled up on the modern sofa with her basket of crochet, surrounded by balls, but the vision dissolves before it fully forms.

The condo doesn’t have room for her bread pans, her tools, or the hand-carved trinkets she crafts for donation. It leaves no room for her to spread out her latest project or space for the casual chaos that always seems to follow her, no matter how hard she tries to contain it.

“What do you think of the lighting?” the realtor asks. “All LEDs, dimmable, with three different settings.”

“It’s great,” I say on autopilot.

I try again, this time picturing kicking back here with Jared and a bottle of wine, watching one of those action movies he loves. His long legs stretched out on the glass coffee table, his laugh filling the space. But the image feels forced, as if I’m trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Jared belongs out on the water, or sitting by a bonfire, or barbecuing in a backyard, not in this sanitized, soulless box with its perfect sight lines and neutral palette.

I stare out at the water through the amazing windows. Would Chloe be inspired by this view when all she has to do is step out of her front door to be surrounded by it on the island?

“Of course, the monthly fee covers all exterior maintenance,” the realtor says with the rushed cadence of someone worried they’re losing their audience. “And the HOA includes a maintenance team on call twenty-four-seven to take care of whatever comes up. It’s the ultimate in low-maintenance living.”

I can afford bigger if I dip into my trust fund. A small house with a yard, maybe, or at least enough space so I wouldn’t have to choose between a dining table and a desk. The money comes with strings attached. More family dinners, suggestions about my career path, and pressure to be the perfect, self-sufficient Beta that my parents have always expected me to be.

And they’re already putting enough on me as it is. The monthly calls to check on my recovery. The subtle questions about when I’m coming back to visit. The unspoken expectation that I’ll eventually return to the fold and take my place in the family business.

“—and the complex has excellent resale value,” the realtor is saying. “Pinecrest is growing, and waterfront properties like this are always in demand. It’s not just a home, it’s an investment in your future.”

I force my focus back to her. “The unit is lovely, just as you promised it would be.”

“It’s perfect for a single professional,” the realtor says, warm with approval. “Or even a couple, down the line. Plenty of room to grow.”

Is it, though? I look around at the pristine space, trying to picture a life unfolding here that isn’t just a different version of what my family has planned for me all along. Graduate. Work. Find a kind, sensible partner. Buy a moderate, sensible home. Have a good, sensible life.

Step by step, decision by decision, until there’s nothing left to choose.

“You’d have a real community here,” she continues. “The building hosts monthly social events. Wine tastings, game nights, that sort of thing. It’s a great way to meet people.”

People like me, she means. Professionals. Singles. People with orderly lives and predictable schedules. Not people like Emily, who shows up with soup when you’re sick, even when you haven’t asked. Not people like Jared, who pick up on your bad speech days and steer the conversation to topics that require fewer words.

People who fit. People who belong.

I’ve been wavering for so long, choosing based on what I thought I should want without stopping to ask if it’s what I actually desire.

“Do you have any questions?” the realtor asks.

I open my mouth to ask about parking or garbage collection or any of a dozen practical concerns, but what comes out is, “Are cats allowed?”

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rise. “A cat?”

“A pet,” I clarify, heat crawling up my neck. “I was thinking about getting one.”

“That’s... something to consider.” Her nose wrinkles in a way that suggests pets are the kind of variable that devalues property. “The complex does allow pets under twenty-five pounds, with a deposit.”

Embarrassment prickles through me for even asking. It’s not as if Emily would bring Mixie here. I just want… The thought slips away before I can catch it, leaving only that hollow ache in its place.

“So,” the realtor says, clasping her hands in front of her. “What do you think? I know it’s only the first place we’ve seen, but sometimes you just know, right?”

She wears the self-assured look of someone who believes the deal is already done. She’s closed sales like this dozens of times, matching the perfect property to the perfect buyer at the perfect moment. She’s already imagining how she’ll spend her commission.